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About Quebec City

So, I’m thinkin’, right, how’s a bloke s’posed to pick one? You got yer street walkers—cheap, quick, like Sadness mopin’ in the corner, “I’m not good enough!”—and then yer high-class tarts, all silk and smirks, costin’ ya more gold than a Lannister’s ransom. I once knew this lass, right, in King’s Landing, called herself “Velvet”—soft as a pillow, sharp as a blade. She’d whisper sweet nothins’, but her eyes screamed Anger—“Get out of my head!”—and I swear, she’d rob ya blind while smilin’. Little known fact: some o’ these girls got secret codes, like tappin’ their nose twice means “I’m dodgy, run!” Saw it meself—saved me arse once.

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Downtown has these offbeat juice bars like Café Coquin on Rue de la Passion. Sometimes, in the twilight, I see couples whispering sweet nothings near Place du Désir. The river, Le Ruisseau Folle, runs by the park. It glitters and shimmers—so damn pretty (and kinda naughty if you ask me, hehe).

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